


Sleeping Beauty

by skydivingwithoutaparachute



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doctor John Watson, Drug Abuse, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, John Watson is a Saint, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, No Eurus Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock dreams being a detective, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-28 05:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20773292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skydivingwithoutaparachute/pseuds/skydivingwithoutaparachute
Summary: "Male, 32, cocaine overdose. In and out of consciousness. Get Dr. Rosebury!"Mycroft Holmes finds his little brother in an alley with a needle in his arm, and when he drifts off into a coma at the hospital, there is little to keep that big brain of his occupied. Luckily, Mycroft knows his brother has always been fascinated by detective stories.Rated mature due to graphic descriptions of violence and sexual content.





	1. Into Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> This series is inspired by a post I saw on Instagram, originally posted on Tumblr, I think. It wonders, what if Sherlock was in a coma at a hospital and dreamed of his life of solving crimes with John Watson, because he's being read detective stories during the coma. If someone sees this post somewhere, please hit me up - I'd love to credit this idea to the original owner!
> 
> EDIT 10-01-2019: The original post on Tumblr is by @a-cumberbatch-of-cookies, the mastermind behind this series.

"Male, 32, cocaine overdose. In and out of consciousness. Get Dr. Rosebury!"

Silvery blue eyes opened and closed, as Sherlock fought to stay conscious, more or less on purpose. The younger Holmes sibling had been walking down an ever-narrowing, winding path into darkness, and now he was dancing on the edge of it, on the verge of unconsciousness and worse, while his older brother watched him for afar. Doctors were all over him, trying to stabilize him and keep him from slipping into the darkness, but it was a losing battle. Mycroft had found him in a filthy alley near Baker Street with a needle in his arm, wearing only his trousers and a ragged dress shirt; His dark grey Belstaff was long gone, as he had traded it for drugs after he ran out of cash. God only knew how Sherlock had gotten himself any money at all after Mycroft closed his bank accounts. The older sibling refused to even think about it, about what Sherlock had probably had to do.

"We're sorry, Mr. Holmes", a kind-looking nurse came up to Mycroft with an empathetic look in her eyes. He was reminded of the existence of his heart, as it plummeted to the bottom of his stomach. Was all lost? Had Sherlock fought his last battle and lost? What was he going to tell Mummy? That he failed as a big brother, that he was the bloody government and couldn't keep his own baby brother safe? "Your brother has fallen comatose. All we can do now is give him nutrition and keep him stable", the nurse continued, snapping Mycroft out of his thoughts. "We will transfer him into a room of his own, and you will be able to visit during visiting hours. We will keep you informed of any changes, but I must warn you, Mr. Holmes, we are not able to predict, when he'll wake up. It could be only hours or days, but in worst case scenario, it could be months or... Or even years, Mr. Holmes." The older Holmes sibling nodded, and thanked the nurse, who left after an additional "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes."

The evening grew dark, but Mycroft stayed by Sherlock's hospital bed. His little brother was stuck full of all kinds of tubes, including a nutrition tube. It made the older sibling slightly huff. "Comatose and you're getting more nutrition than you ever have conscious", he spoke low. He couldn't help but notice, how peaceful Sherlock looked, laying there in the white sheets, his dark, wild curls resting on a couple of quite nice looking pillows. They reminded Mycroft of how exhausted he was after worrying for his brother ever since early morning, when he had found Sherlock. It had been quarter to midnight, when Mycroft had gotten the call from work. His employees had lost his baby brother a few hours ago, and he had yet to turn back up on their radar. What a bunch of bloody morons!

After properly chastening them for not contacting him sooner, Mycroft ordered a search party to find the younger Holmes brother. The autumn night had been anything but warm, but feeling responsible, Mycroft had gone out himself to look for his brother. He had been at 221B Baker Street, if his bloody morons had not seen Sherlock enter his own bloody apartment, but he had found it empty. Poor Mrs. Hudson was worried out of her mind, but Mycroft paid her little attention, as he was far more occupied with finding Sherlock, preferably alive. Thank God the street light by the forsaken alley had been flickering instead of being completely out, or Mycroft could have easily missed the slump of a human in the far end of the alley. There Sherlock had been, sweating and shaking at the same time, his eyes unfocused and mouth hanging slightly open, leaning against a dumpster like he was filthy rat. Sherlock was much too talented to be a drug addict. True, Sherlock had always been the slower child, but with a brain like his he could have achieved anything he wanted, anything at all, but had opted for drugs. Mycroft was aware of his brother's discomfort; Sherlock had nothing to put his brain power into, and was filled with frustrated boredom, a need to put his brain to work. Drugs were only a way to slow it down, shut it up for a moment, or work too fast for Sherlock to even comprehend.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid visiting hours are over and I must ask you to leave", a soft voice came from the door. Mycroft let out a sigh. Goldfishes. He was living in a world of goldfishes. "As I told your people, I work with the British government and I shall stay here as long as I please. This is my brother, and for him I will cause as much trouble as I need to in order to stay", he explained. The Holmes brothers had never been famous for sentiment, but somewhere deep down they both knew, there existed brotherly love between them, and occasions like this brought the feeling and the need to protect one another to the surface. "Yes, Mr. Holmes" was the only thing the poor nurse was able to say, before quickly exiting the room. God knows why she had even been there.

Another sigh left Mycroft's lips, as he looked at the watch on his wrist. "I'm afraid I have to leave for a few hours, brother dear, but I will be back. I shall return with something to occupy that brain of yours with. It must be terrible to be locked up in your Mind Palace." With that, Mycroft rose from the chair, thought about kissing Sherlock's forehead but decided against it, and left the room.


	2. The Dead Diabetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has dug out Sherlock's favorite books and starts reading the series to him.

"Hello, Sherlock. I apologize for being late, but I assure you, it was necessary", Mycroft told his comatose brother as he entered his room near four hours after leaving. The morning sun had risen during his absent hours, but Sherlock had not. Not that Mycroft had really expected that; He was already mentally preparing himself to sacrifice many years of his life to come to care for his little brother. It was his fault after all, letting his minions lose him for half a night so Sherlock could overdose in peace, without interference. Of course the younger Holmes brother had not been aware of this fact - he was always trying to hide somewhere in London in order to get his next fix, but he was almost always interrupted. Dealers kept mysteriously disappearing, and though Sherlock knew Mycroft played a part in the disappearings, what he didn't know, was that Mycroft dealt personally with his brother's dealers. If someone as much as glanced in the general way of Sherlock, Mycroft would be sure to get rid of them himself.

"Mr. Holmes. I was informed you might be here", a raspy female voice came from the door. The obvious smirk in her voice made Mycroft turn around in his chair with a disapproving look in his eyes. The white-coated woman didn't even flinch at the look. "I'm Dr. Vivian Rosebury, your brother's doctor", she introduced herself. Mycroft nodded at the introduction, and with that, Dr. Rosebury moved over to look at Sherlock's charts. She looked the papers over with focus, before shifting it to Mycroft. "I have a few questions about your brother's recent past. Do you think you might be up for answering them, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft looked as his brother's sharp facial features with the slightest of amusement. "I never thought I'd say these words, brother mine, but right now I do miss your company", the older Holmes sibling confessed. "Ordinary people are unbearable. Now, where were we?" he asked, picking up the detective novel he had been reading before Dr. Rosebury had interrupted. "Ah, yes. 'The early rays of golden sunlight penetrated through the light curtains, and woke Darlington up. Jack had never been so tired in his entire life, but the stakeout had drained him of even the last drop of energy...'"

After four more chapters, Mycroft's voice started to get hoarse and tremble. "We'll continue it tomorrow, Sherlock", Mycroft promised, and laid the detective novel on the stand by Sherlock's hospital bed. "If you wish to continue it now, feel free to get up and read it yourself." Apparently Sherlock wasn't too eager to continue the novel, as he stayed in his unconscious state, much to Mycroft's disappointment. What he was unaware of, was that Sherlock was dreaming.

_The London sky had grown dark with clouds, only the slightest of moonlight got through to light the filthy docks by the Thames river. A cold breeze caught the tails of Sherlock's dark grey Belstaff coat, as he stood by a bloated corpse laid down on the docks, a navy jacket and denim blue jeans soaked with dirty water. "Forty-four or forty-five, type one diabetic, divorced but in contact with his wife, nightworker, owns a cat, most likely a security guard at a warehouse", Sherlock spoke too quickly for a younger officer to understand; The poor man looked completely baffled and somewhat annoyed, not that Sherlock himself noticed, as he rambled on about the lad lying dead on the docks._

_"Hate to break it to you" - Sherlock could hear the smugness in the younger officer, Philip Anderson's voice, when he finally spoke up - "but he's diagnosed with type two diabetes. Which wasn't hard to guess. Being that fat, obviously he has diabetes." The detective rolls his silvery eyes in frustration and lets out a sigh. "He is getting medication for type two diabetes, but he is not improving, so he probably doesn't have type two diabetes", Sherlock answered in a stinging voice, throwing Anderson a disapproving look. "He has slowly healing cuts and bruises, typical symptoms of diabetes, and probably caused by his blurry vision, also a symptom of diabetes. His clothes are too big for him, which means, that he has lost weight and hasn't yet bought smaller clothes, suggesting he wasn't looking to lose weight and lost it quite rapidly. If you ask his employer, he will most likely tell you, that Mr. Langermann here has seemed out of character lately, probably more irritated and exhausted than usual. Which also is due to diabetes." "And the wife?" "The man lives alone with a cat, he won't bother seeing a doctor unless someone tells him to! His finger is slimmer where he had a wedding ring for years, but since it's been gone long enough for the skin to be evenly coloured, therefore he is not married anymore. Fat people are less liked in general, so it's unlikely he has a girlfriend to take care of him, and loner with a cat means no friends, so the ex-wife it is."_

Mycroft looked at the worn out covers of the novel. It was the first in a series of 22 books, the Detective Jack Darlington Series, written by Irene Adler. A bold author since a young age who Mycroft had actually once met at a fancy gala. She had been the spitting image of a femme fatale in a black and white Hollywood movie, and Mycroft had quickly withdrawn himself from Ms. Adler's company. Sherlock would probably have liked her though, he always liked to play with fire, and Ms. Adler could easily have been the fire that would burn him. But God, Sherlock had loved her books struggling through his teenage years. Teenage Sherlock had always had one of the two things in his hands; Either a military magazine, or a Jack Darlington novel. In his childhood, the younger Holmes brother had always wanted to be a pirate, but since hitting puberty, he had gotten more into being a detective. When Mycroft said Sherlock could have been anything he ever desired, he truly meant anything, including a detective.


	3. An Exceptional Goldfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Sherlocks make a friend; Detective Sherlock finds himself a new flatmate, while comatose Sherlock finds someone to read to him while Mycroft's busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I feel like I need to mention that Sherlock's dream will not completely stick to the story BBC's TV show tells. It will follow down the same path, but there will be alternated scenes or even fully fictional scenes that do not occur on the show.

Mycroft sat down in his chair with a heavy heart, sunken as deep down in his stomach as the imprint of his behind had sunken into the chair by Sherlock's hospital bed. "I'm afraid I'll have to run in just a minute, brother mine", he spoke with regret, lowering his eyes to the side of the bed. "I'm always rather busy, as you know, but today I simply can not get away", the older Holmes brother continued, holding his umbrella in front of him, end on the floor. "I wish I could find someone to read to you, but I know you would prefer as few as possible to see you like this. And even fewer to know about your fondness for being read to." Sometimes Mycroft felt it was quite difficult to be Sherlock's big brother, as the younger one could be a handful from time to time - even for Mycroft. He sat there for a few minutes, but then rose from his chair and sighed. "I must leave now, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow, perhaps even late tonight."

The older Holmes brother was walking through the hallways of the hospital, heading out, when he heard someone rush after him. He could hear a limp and a walking cane, so he assumed it was one of the patients there and wished to reach the exit before having to exchange words, but his wishes were in vain, as a "hold on a minute, Mr. Holmes!" stopped him in his tracks. Mycroft rolled his eyes before turning around, only to be met by the sight of a shorter, buffer man with a walking cane and a white coat. The name tag on his chest said doctor, and it was enough to take Mycroft Holmes by surprise. "I realize it's none of my business, but I accidentally overheard you talking to... Err, your... Brother. You said you'd need someone to read to him", the blond doctor began to explain, dancing around his question or statement. "Would you kindly get to your point, doctor?" "Ah, yes, of- Of course. I would like to volunteer to read to your brother, Mr. Holmes." Another surprise, though he probably should have seen that one coming. Either way, Mycroft was silent for a minute. "I... Yes, that would be very kind of you, doctor. I'm sure my brother would appreciate it, as long as he doesn't in any way keep you away from your patients."

John felt tad bit unnerved, as he pushed open the door and walked into Sherlock Holmes' hospital room. The new doctor had quickly developed a bad habit of snooping around other doctors' papers and eavesdropping on his collagues gossiping. He was convinced he had been hired out of pity, as the hospital wouldn't let him have any patients more difficult than simple colds, even though he had more experience with emergencies than most of the young doctors in this hospital; John had been an army doctor and had patched up more critical patients with poorer equipment than these pompous pricks who were now held in higher value than he was. Dr. Watson shook his head and took the seat next to young Holmes' hospital bed, watching him with curious blue eyes. Sherlock's odd name had caught the good doctor's attention and while he had had some guesses about what kind of a person would bear such a name, none of them came even close to the beauty and grace laying in the white sheets before John. With a smile the doctor sat down and grabbed the worn novel off the nightstand. "A detective novel? Well, you do look the part of someone adoring mysteries and grisly puzzles..."

_"I'm Dr. John Watson", a blond man introduced himself, offering his hand for a handshake. Sherlock glanced down at John's offered hand and then back into the deep sea blue eyes, before grabbing the doctor's hand with his own leather gloved one. John had a firm handshake, which was typical for a doctor, but especially for a soldier. It was quite obvious that John was an army doctor, though he seemed almost shocked, when Sherlock asked if he had been in Afghanistan or Iraq. Oh good, another goldfish, as Mycroft liked to call them. This goldfish was exceptional though. Sherlock couldn't quite lay his finger on it - yet -, but there was something about this goldfish that caught his attention. The goldfish caught his attention so well, that Sherlock nearly forgot to give the poor man the address to an apartment they were going to be meeting at later today. A mutual acquintance had clearly thought the two would make excellent flatmates. Sherlock could only hope John would like the apartment - what the doctor did not know, was that the detective had already gone and moved in._


End file.
